


The Monsters We Make

by monicawoe



Series: How They Make You a Weapon [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 11:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11184138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe
Summary: The Winter Soldier escapes more than once throughout the decades. This is the story of what he searches for and who he encounters along the way.1957 (Drangsnes, Iceland), 1972 (Los Angeles), 1986 (Brooklyn), 2018 (Wakanda)Sequel toHow They Make You a WeaponandAll We Monsters. Can be read as stand-alone.





	The Monsters We Make

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to my beta [ speranza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/speranza).  
> Here's to that future Virginia Woolf AU ; )

**Drangsnes, Iceland (1957)**

 

_**"Semnadtsat’"** _

"Run!" Gunfire outside. They're coming. They're close. "Howard, go, or I'll kill you!"

"You won't. I trust you, I know you―"

"And I know you. You're going to help them make more of me."

"No, I'd never―"

"You will. They'll force you. Just like they force everybody. And I can't let that happen. So go. Now."

"Through the front door?"

"I've got your back. For a few more seconds."

_**"Rassvet."** _

It's too late. "Please. Run."

After one more torturous moment of hesitation, Howard runs.

_**"Péčʹ’"** _

_No._

_**"Dévjitʹ** _

_Stop._

_**"Dabrasirdéčnyj."** _

_Stop. Please, stop._

_**"Vazvraščénije na ródinu."** _

You lower your gun. There are corpses around you, clean head-shots. One is slumped against the sprawling roots of a large pine-tree. You are awake.

_**"Adín."** _

You are awake and you're sweating. It's not cold. It's supposed to be cold. Your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, not chemical sleep.

_**"Gruzavój vagón."** _

There's a buzzing in your brain. Your commanding officer is nowhere to be seen. "Gotovy soblyudat'," you say, in the direction of the amplified voice. It's the response they're waiting for.

A branch above snaps as the man holding the megaphone shifts his position. _**"Good morning, soldier."**_

Your heart rate slows. The adrenaline panic in your veins settles. Everything is as it should be.

_**"Find him."** _

You run, not sure who it is you're pursuing, but aware of the sound on the edges of your periphery, somebody stumbling carelessly, noisily through the uneven terrain of the woods.

It doesn't take long to cover the distance the target has made. A few more seconds at your top speed and you can hear him gasping for breath. He's exhausted.

He skitters along the icy slope heading down towards the sea, stumbling and falling to his hands and knees more than once. Fear makes his motions unbalanced and jerky. You shift your path, heading up along a outcropping. The visibility is better and he won't see you unless he stops and turns. And if he does, you'll be the last thing he ever sees. He knows it, too, by the panicked way he moves.  
  
But he does stop—and the hitch of his breath gives you pause. Something prickles at the back of your mind. _"We're all monsters here, pal."_ You keep your gun locked on him, aimed at the back of his head, but you can't—you _won't_ pull the trigger.

He snaps out of it and runs again, changing direction, disappearing under the rocky crag.

Boot-steps behind you pound to a stop—three Hydra soldiers. "Soldier, where is the target?" one asks.

"Unknown."

"Where is the target?" another asks, voice wavering.

You round on them, and two of them shrink back, just a step. "Unknown."

The soldier in the center, your superior, raises a tranq gun and fires three successive shots into your shoulder. Your legs give out, knees buckling like all your tendons have snapped loose. You hit the ground with a thump. A pine needle grazes your nostril. A pair of boots nears as your vision begins to tunnel.

_"Mission complete. Extraction needed."_

With the last of your fading strength you claw at the earth with your fingers, seeking hold. There's an unfocused pain in your chest—not physical but deeper. You don't want an extraction. You want to stay here. There was a boat, and a cabin, and someone who helped you—

You got away.

 

##

**Los Angeles (1972)**

 

"You will retrieve this prototype and bring it to me, here." Dr. Zola points at his notebook, watching you as you study the blueprint of the item in question and commit it to memory.

"Stark must not know you are there. It is imperative that you are not discovered. You must leave no evidence behind. No deaths, no sightings. Are we clear?"

"Yes."

"After you have delivered the prototype, you will complete your secondary mission. Speak with no one about the first."

#

The mansion's defense grid is as predicted — extensive, but easy to disable with the tools the doctor gave you. The grid will restart automatically within three minutes, so you move quickly.

As predicted, the prototype isn't guarded heavily, it's not even under lock and key. It's sitting on a shelf in Howard Stark's basement lab. You replace it with the mock-up the doctor gave you, almost identical save for the power cell's casing, which is a slightly different colored metal.

You tuck the prototype into your pack and retreat back up into the air-vents. You're above the west wing's main stretch of hallway when a pair of footsteps clicks nearer and stops.

"Who's there?" The voice belongs to a woman; her hair and her gun are just visible through the slots in the vent.

You quiet your breathing, slow your heart and hold perfectly still as she scans the room, squinting up at the ceiling.

"Show yourself or I'll shoot."

_"Show yourself or I'll shoot, you spineless Hydra scum,"_ the voice in your mind says" same pitch, same tone, and you see a red dress with lips to match, and a man smiling bright as a summer day.

"Oh Peggy, there you are!" Another figure comes to a stop beneath you—a woman with darker hair, holding a baby. "I've been looking all over for you, Howard's about to start the toast!"

"I'll be there in a minute, just need to check on something."

"Check on what? Something wrong?" The baby in her arms begins to squirm and mewl. "Shh, Tony. It's okay"

"No, everything's fine," Peggy says. "I'll just be a minute, Maria, I promise."

The baby starts to wail in earnest this time and you use the noise as cover, crossing the last stretch of vent tunnels quickly, and slip around the bend up towards the opening. You're on the ground again, well past the decorative wall, running swiftly between the palm trees at the outermost edge of Stark's property when you hear doors being flung open, followed by a muttered curse.

#

**Camp Lehigh, New Jersey (1972)**

 

The doctor is hidden beneath the ground, in the bowels of an old Army camp. The entrance is well guarded, but the soldiers are easy to slip past. The doctor is asleep when you enter the room, sitting in an oversized chair that reminds you far too much of your own for comfort. The wires attached to his head are of a different sort though. And he doesn't appear to be in any pain. Until he awakens with a hacking cough.

You stay where you are a few feet away from him and wait for him to finish. He see the prototype in your hands, and beckons you closer with a weak wave of his fingers.

"Go to the twenty-fourth row of databanks, behind me. The access panel beneath the third unit from the left is open. Insert the prototype there. You'll find the right connectors."

He keeps talking as you head down the split-level stairs and locate the right unit.

"My... _superiors_ have deemed my mind too valuable an asset to lose," he says. "The irony must not be lost on you, heh?" He chuckles then, but it devolves into another coughing fit.

While he's still struggling, you locate the databank and slide the prototype into place, attaching the two connector cables. It glows softly, which you assume is confirmation it's operational.

As you return to the doctor's chair, the tape spool behind him stutters and comes to a stop. A moment later the next databank kicks in.

"They think storing my brain will capture only my knowledge, and not the rest of my being...my will, my _soul_ so to speak." He coughs again, only twice, but sharply, deeply. A drop of blood trickles out between his lips. "But...you and I both know that the soul is not so easily vanquished, don't we?"

"Orders?" you ask, unsure if he's making a request.

"Complete your secondary mission, soldier."

You turn on your heel and head for the exit.

"For years, I thought you were my greatest success. Our own super soldier. But instead, it will be this—my own immortality."

The door slides shut behind you, dampening the sounds of the doctor's coughing.

 

##

**Sagaponack, NY (1986)**

 

"——brand new, state-of-the-art research laboratories, wholly funded by entrepreneur and billionaire, Howard Stark, whose son, Anthony, graduated MIT today at the age of 16. We were unable to reach Mr. Stark for a direct comment, but he has released the following pre-recorded, public statement. "I am of course very proud of my son. Seems like he's got more than a little of his dad's ingenuity, dedication and brilliance in him."

The late-day sun bounces off the surface of the heated pool, blindingly bright. The voice on the radio mixed with the gleaming water makes your head ache, a recollection from years ago lurking just beneath the surface.

Senator Harvey's corpse floats back into your point of view, bringing you out of your reverie. His head knocks against the pool ladder, sending him drifting sideways to the far corner amidst a roiling cloud of steam—hot water mixing with the frigid winter air.

Your mission is complete, the target eliminated. You make your way out of the senator's yard, scaling the wall with ease. You're to return to the extraction point, a quarter mile up the nearest interstate. The stretch of land between here and there is densely wooded, providing a convenient, hidden route.

About half a mile from the extraction point, you hear voices.  
As you get closer, the voices get louder, angrier. It's a group of people, next to a bus. Several of them are arguing, including one in uniform—the driver. "Sir, we should be up and running again in just a few minutes, if you'll just—"

"Listen, pal," the man in the trench-coat says, exhaling cigarette smoke into the driver's face. "I need to get to Forty-Second Street by six pm sharp. I've got a very important business dinner—it could cost me my job if I don't get there on time!"

"I understand that sir, we'll be up and running again soon, the mechanic just needs to—"

"Soon isn't good enough, you understand, I—"

"It's so cold in there!" says an older woman. "Couldn't you at least turn on the heater?"

"Not while the engine is being worked on, ma'am."

The mechanic closes the engine compartment, satisfied, and cleans his hands on a rag. You watch him for a beat, wait for him to start talking to the driver. While they're all distracted, you board the bus. The bench way in the back has no belongings or people on it, so you sit, slumped against the window, eyes closed, as though you were sleeping.

The bus departs eight minutes later, driving right past your extraction point. The Hydra agents in the unmarked car never even glance up as you go by.

#

**Brooklyn (1986)**

 

The bridge looks different, but it feels right—its familiar slope beneath the soles of your boots, and the way the icy wind bites into your skin as you walk across to the other side. The clock tower on the other side is new, but the sign says Flatbush and that's right, you can feel it in your gut.

You don't know why you're here, don't know what it is you're looking for exactly, only that you have to get there and it'll all make sense once you're there.

Luckily, though your brain can't show you the path, your legs remember. You navigate the streets, feeling your way towards the goal—an apartment, _his_ apartment, _home_. It's here, it's close, and he'll be there, he's waiting. If only you could remember who _he_ was.

You turn a corner and another until you're there, the intersection of Front and Bridge, right where it's supposed to be. But it's not there. There's no apartment building at all, no laundry strung across the courtyard, no trash barrels lined up against the stairwell wall, nobody smoking on the fire escape. There's not even a building, just an empty lot—a fence encasing a big patch of nothing and a few piles of rubble. You stand there for a while, looking at it, blinking, closing your eyes and reopening them. Things change sometimes when you close your eyes and reopen them. The whole world looks different every time you wake up, so maybe it'll fix itself if you just wait.

But the lot stays empty; the only changing details are the number of pigeons congregating on the mesh fence.

The sun starts to set and the air gets colder still. But you don't know where else to go. This is where you were supposed to go. There's no other destination, no other place that calls to you as strongly. You walk around the lot once more and a flash of despair shudders through your veins. This was home, and home is gone. So what now?

As the wind picks up again, you tuck your chin into the collar of your jacket, stick your hands into your pockets and stay where you are, until the sun starts to go down. A police officer asks you if you're "doing okay there, sir?"

You nod, and walk away. Your feet still know the streets, and there are other places they remember, paths they used to go, a bar, a movie theater, a—a restaurant or Automat or maybe a laundromat. It all blurs together and nothing's where it should be.

After another hour of circling a block where everything is wrong, you find a stoop in an alley between a deli and a church sheltered from the wind, and sit.

Someone's talking at you.

"...they've got food, water, coffee. It's not the best coffee, but it's still coffee."

You blink up at him—a kid, maybe seventeen, shock of black hair sticking out from underneath a purple knit hat and a pair of snow-peppered thick glasses.

"Come on, man, it's freezing out here." He rubs his hands together, blows his breath into them and sticks them back into his pockets.

After a moment, you push yourself to your feet and wait for him to take the lead.

#

The soup kitchen is warm, as is the smile of the woman ladling out food.

The kid leads you to a table in the middle of the room. Nearly all of the other tables are occupied—to your left, behind you, and in front of you. It makes you uncomfortable: you feel unguarded and exposed.

"Don't like crowds?"

You shake your head.

"Me neither. But this place is safe, trust me." He waves his fingers in greeting, says, "I'm Bruce," and goes back to eating his mashed potatoes.

The mashed potatoes are lukewarm and salty. Swallowing the food down feels strange, like you haven't done it in a long time. But you're hungry and you eat more quickly with every bite, moving on to the meat and the vegetables until your plate is empty.

Bruce is still watching you when you finish, his own plate only half empty. "So, you got a name?"

You swallow again, your throat feels dry from the salt, so you take a sip from the little plastic cup of water.

"It's cool, if you don't want to tell me, I get it." Bruce nods knowingly, like he's in on a shared secret. "I recently got out of a bad situation too, you know?" He chews on his lip, forces back a bitter smile. "So just uh, tell me what I should call you?"

That answer, you know: "Soldier."

Bruce cocks an eyebrow, points at your left hand. "So that _is_ a prosthetic."

You look down at your gloved hand; the metal is exposed only a few centimeters where the sleeve of your jacket's ridden up. The kid is observant. "Yes."

"Looks pretty slick. Who designed it?"

_Round glasses. Pain. What happened? Division X...advanced prototype...nothing like it. You are to be the Fist of Hydra._. "I don't know."

"From the war?"

You stare at him for a beat, then back down at your hand. War — the word brings back memories. You try to put it into words, but you remember falling. The room tilts as your equilibrium falters, and you steady yourself, propping your forearm against the table, as you curl your left hand in tight, until you feel the metal plates in your palm shifting.

"Shit, I'm sorry, man, that was a really dickish thing of me to ask." Bruce's ears flush red at the tips and he stumbles over his next words. "Some-sometimes I talk before I think. Sorry."

Your heart's still racing, and part of you wants to flee. You shouldn't have come here.

"Want a cookie?" Bruce hands you one from his tray.

"That's yours."

"I'm giving it to you, so now it's yours."

"Thanks." You accept his offering.

"Thank Penelope. She bakes them and brings them here every Sunday morning."

You take a bite of the cookie and the taste makes a memory bubble to the surface, smudged and unsteady but there — a warm kitchen, a warmer laugh, and the scent of chocolate and vanilla.

"Good, right?" Bruce asks.

You blink at him.

"Okay, um. Well you probably need somewhere to sleep tonight. I know a place."

Sleep. Needles and ice and you'll wake up with a heavy body and a barren mind. You start to shake your head.

"Come on, man. It's nearby. The beds are lice-free. Well, mostly. It's got heat, and it's safe. They test on the way in to make sure—to keep it safe. You're clean right?"

Clean. You're not sure what he means, but he seems to take your silence as an affirmation.

#

The flophouse is full of people. Most of them keep to themselves, mind their own business, not even sparing you a glance while Bruce leads you to the shared bedroom — eighteen cots in various states of disarray. Like barracks. You remember being in barracks and in make-shift camps with cots with other soldiers and they were all your...you fought alongside them, and—

"Zeke says you can take this one, right next to mine." Bruce points at an empty cot. "There's a toothbrush, a towel and some soap in the bin underneath. Bathroom's down the hall. Second door on the left."

The cot bows slightly under your weight, but it'll hold. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Bruce says, smiling sheepishly. "We all need help sometimes." He reaches under his cot, rummages around and pulls out a stack of magazines. "Want something to read?" Bruce asks as he hands you one. Not a magazine, a comic book.

_'Captain America #318: War on Wheels'_ The cover shows a man with an insectoid-looking gas mask, and behind him another man in blue with a star on his chest and matching helmet, riding a motorcycle. The pages are thin, filled with color. They feel like they'll tear beneath your fingers so you turn them carefully.

"Cap's still my favorite," Bruce says. "Always has been, you know. Sometimes there's dumb story-lines though, ones where you really wonder how they ever got printed. That one there's not too bad, but back when I was nine there was this one where Cap had to fight the statue of Abraham Lincoln."

"What?"

"Tell me about it."

"But even with those crappy issues, he's—he's a role model, you know? Brave and a good guy. And real. Steve Rogers."

The name runs down your spine, electric in its familiarity. "Steve?"

"Yeah, Captain America's real name is Steve Rogers." Bruce points at one of the comic panels. "See?"

You look at the pictures, the little white tufts on the helmet. "That's not Steve."

"Well, it's a comic book. I mean, I assume the guy didn't actually talk like that either, but what're you gonna do?" Bruce turns the page and points to a panel of Captain America punching a Nazi tank. "This much is real."

_Captain America. Steve. Steve picking fights no matter the odds._ "He was supposed to stay home."

"What's that?"

"He shouldn't have gone to war."

"Well yeah, that's why they gave him the serum, so he could be strong enough to fight." Bruce sets the comic on his lap, brow furrowed. "Someday, I'm gonna figure out how they made it. The super soldier serum. Because you know," Bruce adds excitedly, leaning forwards, like he's sharing a secret, "There was never supposed to be just one. There was supposed to be an army. Imagine how much good an army of super soldiers could do!"

You shake your head.

"See the thing is, I think it can be done again."

"It can't."

"Sure it can. They've been trying. They never _stopped_ trying, they're probably just going about it the wrong way. Nobody pays attention to how important the exact mix of radiation they gave Rogers was—but see I think that's the key."

"They've been trying," you wet your lips, remember generals, and admirals, the doctor. _'You were my greatest success. Our own super soldier.'_

"I don't just think we can do it again, I think we could go further," Bruce continues. "And I'm gonna figure out how." His mouth curls, the eager snarl of a starving beast. But it disappears just as quickly and he pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "I just gotta get somebody to fund me first. Go to school, get access to a lab, and a radio-pharmacology division, maybe find some of the archived samples of Rogers' blood they keep saying don't exist." He scoffs. "But you know they do. They've gotta have kept something. But even without the samples, I think there's things we could do with radioactivity—with gamma rays in particular."

"Don't use gamma rays." _The things behind the wall, Zola's failed experiments—distended, grotesque and dead._

Bruce looks at you curiously. "Why not?"

_'You can have incredible, uncontrollable strength for a short while, or long-term obedience, but not both.'_ "I don't know."

"You know something?" Bruce asks. "About Project Rebirth?"

You shake your head.

"Yeah, 'course you don't. How could you? Born in the wrong decade, just like me." He tosses you another comic.

_'Cap vs. The Red Skull: To the Death!'_ You page through it and pause on a sketch in the back—one that looks a lot more like "Steve" feels in your memory. You trace your fingertips around the sketch, remembering the sound of a pencil scraping against paper, a voice telling you to _"quit fidgeting so much!"_

"Steve wasn't supposed to go to war," you say, more to the comic than to anyone in particular.

"Bullshit!" Bruce snaps.

His anger surprises you. His eyes are narrowed, slim shoulders hunched together as he leans forward, fingers clenching the baggy knees of his jeans.

"You don't understand what it's like, being small. Being _weak_. I mean look at you." He thrusts out one hand in your direction then draws back in on himself, picking at his frayed socks. "Puny guys like me, we get pushed around, by everybody. Everybody!" He nods to himself, lowers his voice with visible effort. "Even our own fathers."

He stinks of fear.

"So I just, I decided, you know? That I'm not gonna let it happen again. That I'm going to make sure it can't ever happen again." Bruce's eyes have gone glassy, and his voice wavers. "Not just for me, for all the little guys."

"He should've stayed home," you say again, softly. Bruce is in pain, but you don't understand half of what he's saying, let alone what he expects you to say.

"Yeah, whatever. I'm gonna go to sleep." Bruce shuts off his lamp and turns his back on you, feigning sleep. His shoulders hitch a few times as he sniffles, hiding his tears.

#

You're having difficulty focusing. Five hours laying in the dark hasn't helped you feel any more rested, just heavier. Sleep isn't possible. They used to give you something to make you sleep, slowed your blood with ice, inside and out. And now you can't sleep without it. You've been up for...a while. You're pretty sure you can stay awake longer than most, but it's been at least five days, maybe six.

The effects are minimal, but noticeable. Bright sparks at the periphery of your vision, even in the darkness of the night, a slight tingling in your toes and fingertips. In another twelve hours or so, you'll collapse and then perhaps sleep will come.

You'll have to get away from Bruce before then so he's not alarmed. After breakfast, you'll say goodbye and find a new destination. Maybe another lap around the neighborhood. There's other spots you haven't checked, other places that might still be familiar, even if they're not home. There was a park somewhere, a beach, a boardwalk where he—where Steve used to like to eat French fries and ride the Ferris wheel—the Wonder Wheel.

You spend a few more seconds listening to the sounds around you, including Bruce's unintelligible muttering, and realize that waiting until breakfast will only put him in more danger. You have to leave now, before he wakes, no matter how much you'd like to stay for one more meal, one more conversation that makes you feel like a person. But that's a selfish wish, and you won't put Bruce at risk. Without making a sound, you slip your boots back on and stand. For a moment, you consider taking the comics with you, before setting them back down on your mattress.

The man at the front desk asks you to sign out, but beyond that, doesn't say a word.

The door creaks lightly when it opens. It's gotten even colder overnight, and you flip up the collar of your jacket, stick your hands deeper into your pockets, before heading down the steps.

You've only gone three steps when you hear it—the sound of static, something electrical and close. You see them move in the shadows of the alley and bring your left arm up just in time to block the first two tranquilizer darts. Four armed men come at you from the other direction, but you take out two with a quick roundhouse kick and knock the other pair down with your fist.

But there are more. A dozen of them altogether. You grab the rifle from the one closest to you and use it to disarm and incapacitate four others.

Something sharp pierces you in the back from behind. A dart. Another hits a second later. You turn and fire off a shot towards the man holding the tranq gun, striking him in the arm. He shouts, dropping his gun, and clutches at his bleeding biceps.

"Take him down," a voice says crackling over a speaker. "Now."

More darts strike you in the side, and your vision starts to blur around the edges.

"Holy shit," says a voice from the stoops of the flophouse. Bruce's voice.

"Go back inside, son. This man is a fugitive; he's extremely dangerous."

As your legs start to buckle, two of the agents grab you and keep you from falling, holding you up by your elbows. They drag you towards the waiting van.

"Wait!" Bruce says. "Just—wait a minute!" He moves towards the van, just before the door is slammed shut.

"...shouldn't have gone to war," you say, as the van's engine rumbles, and your eyes fall shut.

 

#

**Long Island (1991)**

 

You park your motorcycle, and wait, hidden behind a delivery truck in the parking lot, as Stark exits his car and meets with a lab assistant in slacks and a purple sweater. The lab assistant looks conflicted as he hands the metal briefcase to Stark. "Who are you giving this to?"

"Nobody you should know about, kid." Stark answers, resting the case on the back of his car. He opens the case, which holds five blue pouches of liquid. "This looks like batch 106," Stark says, "I asked you to get me the newest, the one we talked about with the most stable—"

"This is it. Batch 118, we used 106 as a blueprint," says the lab assistant. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Got all the bells and whistles 106 had with 300% the duration."

"What? How'd you pull that off?" Stark closes the case back up.

"Sustained, alternating currents of gamma radiation. Low dose, just enough to—"

"To spur on the growth rate right when it starts to decay...that's brilliant." Stark claps the assistant on the shoulder. "Nice work there, Bannister."

The assistant's nose wrinkled. "You said it had to last at least twenty four hours minimum before burnout. This'll make it forty-eight, maybe longer if you lower the body temperature of the mice."

"Mice, right." Stark shakes his head. "Whatever we're paying you, kid, it ain't enough. I'll fix that come Monday."

The lab assistant smiles sheepishly and jogs back to the building. Howard returns to his car and sets the case in the trunk before sliding back into the driver's seat. The woman beside him says and does nothing to acknowledge his presence.

They drive off.

_Sanction and extract. No witnesses._

You give them a thirty second head start and then follow them up the road.

 

#

The impact from the crash does most of the work; her fingers do little more than brush against your fingers as they clamp down on her throat. She dies quietly.

He stares up at you, eyes wide beneath a bloodied brow and asks, "Sergeant Barnes?" like that's supposed to mean something to you.

#

"Well done, soldier," Karpov says. He sends you to the maintenance room where the techs look over your arm. You sustained no damage, but they clean it anyway, test its functionality. They don't sedate you, tell you instead to wait in the chair for further orders.

The five Wolves pass by a few minutes later, headed towards the medical corridor. They're on your white-list, allies to protect. Loyal servants of Hydra, the best-trained soldiers they have to offer.

Twenty minutes later, all five of them start screaming. Karpov comes in a while later and asks, "Did it hurt you this much, I wonder?" He tilts his head. "Not like you'd remember."

_The blue liquid burns in your veins and you feel like you're on fire and your skin is too small, too tight and you feel like your body will burst and the pressure behind your eyes is unbearable._

He folds his arms behind him and paces the floor in front of your chair slowly. "There is a small part of me that wants to try the concoction myself. Who wouldn't want that kind of strength?" He looks at you and winks. "But we both know that it comes at a price, don't we?" He laughs at his own joke. "They'll be supremely useful tools though. Maybe more useful than you. Maybe—just _maybe_ you will have finally earned your retirement."

Karpov's words make you angry in a distant way. You don't understand all he's saying, but you know he's taunting you. And the Wolves are still screaming. Their suffering doesn't bother him in the least. And it should. Shouldn't it? It bothers you.

When they do finally stop, Karpov leaves the room and orders you to follow him.

The Wolves are awake, and they've changed. Stark's serum has altered their bodies: They're taller now, new thick layers of muscles on top of bodies that were already strong to begin with. They're given new, larger uniforms; they dress quickly, efficiently, have no trouble adjusting to their changed limbs. Of course, their limbs are still their own, no new ones to contend with.

They stand ready, but even their stances have changed. The stiff formality of Hydra's elite has vanished. There's a hunger in their eyes, an eagerness that makes you think of the pounding of boots and the smell of leaves. Bloodlust.

"You will fight them," Karpov says.

You carry out your order. The first Wolf, Josef, counters your punches, blocks every strike with ease, and when he pushes back, he wrenches your arm up and over, slamming you down to the floor, so your shoulder socket is beneath his boot. The pain is bearable, because you're used to so much worse, but it's left you vulnerable.

It's your left side he has pinned, your stronger side—made of adamantium-titanium metal, but given the pressure he's exerting, that's all useless. You don't have the leverage or the strength to get up.

The dread in your gut has nothing to do with fear of dying. If Josef kills you, it'll be over. But if he doesn't—if he leaves you alive, then he'll have proven his superiority and your obsolescence. And that means ice, that means permanent storage. The thought didn't used to scare you, but now it does, because things change when you close your eyes, things change and you forget everything—all the faded grey memories. You're not even sure they're yours, but they're comforting. There was something else before this. A different life—a smile, a laugh from a friend that meant everything. You were free, once. Maybe more than once.

Josef was free. He had a life outside of this place. They all did. Their rooms had photographs of loved ones, children. And they gave that up, to be pumped full of pain, to be made stronger. All for Hydra. Josef notices you staring at him, and his eyes show no regret.

"Good work," Karpov says, satisfied. He is proud of Josef's display, which he somehow sees as his own accomplishment.

But Josef isn't done. The Wolves have their own ideas about demonstrating their new skills. Josef turns and grabs the nearest guard by the wall. The others follow suit, attacking everyone else in the room.

"Get me out of here," Karpov commands.

And that you can do. You step in front of him, guide him through the fray, knock one of the Wolves aside before he has a chance to get you under his boot.

Karpov's gun is propped against your shoulder and he clutches the back of your jacket, using you as a shield. There's no easy way out of the room; the hall is in automatic lockdown, the door at the end of the hall is sealed. But there are cells at either end, the hall is designed for trials like this, so you back into a cell, and slam the cell door shut. If the Wolves really wanted in, they could break the door, but as it is, they appear to have lost interest in you and Karpov altogether.

They tear their way through the rest of the guards in the hall, rending two of them limb from limb as the alarms blare.

Karpov shuffles behind you, pulls out his radio, and barks out orders, calling for code Epsilon.

A clear, dividing wall slides down inside the cell. The gas starts a few seconds later, pouring in through the vents in the hall outside.

The gas doesn't slow down the Wolves, but the other soldiers cough and choke within seconds. The Wolves stop fighting them, and regroup at the end of the hall. They look at each other, a quick exchange of thoughts from a group used to working as one unit. They move, so they're next to each other, then begin pounding their fists against the shatterproof, transparent adamantium wall. The wall holds, but starts to distend, and the gas output increases until the air is thick with it.

The Wolves finally succumb to the chemicals in the air. Two pull themselves to their feet again, throw another punch and another. The wall quivers, but holds, and then the gas overtakes them.

Josef pauses, fists bloodied, and stares over his shoulder at you. His eyes are tearing and he begins to cough. You watch him as he sinks to his knees.

Karpov stays silent behind you, for a full two minutes, waiting and watching. Then he slowly lowers his gun, raises his radio and says. "Put them on ice. Put them all on ice."

## 

**Siberia (2016)**

 

When you see the Wolves again, they all have bullets in their heads. In the end, they are disposable too, a means to an end, same as you.

Zemo, another Zemo, killed them, and brought you here just to show Howard's son your past. The moment you see the date-stamp on the video, you remember. The memory of that night came back often enough over your two years of freedom. Howard's bloodied face looking up at you in confusion, the feel of his face cracking beneath your fist. In the morass of your nightmares, the faces of former friends haunt you far more often than the rest.

Howard's son wants you dead. And worse, your betrayal is somehow also Steve's. Because he knew. Because he knew and said nothing. Your past taints Steve over and over and if you could, if you had the strength you'd run away and never look back. But as it is, you can't even take a step until Steve tells you to.

But Tony catches you, spits accusations—asks you if you remember killing his parents. He intends to kill you, and his rage is so all-consuming he won't stop there. And if you die, so be it, you've got enough to answer for, but you're sure as hell not going to let him touch Steve.

So you fight with everything you have, you hold him back, nearly tear the power core from his suit, but he blasts you full-force, obliterating your arm. The neural-connectors send intense heat into your nervous system, overloading your pain receptors. It's only with Steve's help that you get out of there at all.

Tony tells Steve he doesn't deserve the shield, that his father made it. And Steve drops the shield, without hesitation, and part of you wants to reprimand him, tell him no matter what Tony says, Howard would've wanted him to keep it. But the other, stronger part of you is relieved that it's Steve you're leaving with, not Captain America. The title is meaningless on its own; Steve's steadfast morals and courage in the face of insurmountable odds are what made the name matter. Not the serum, and not the shield.

 

##

**Wakanda (2018)**

 

Though it should be impossible, while you're in cryo, you dream. You dream of the past, drifting back year by year until you're sixteen again, at the beach, and Steve is laughing beside you and the sand is warm between your toes. You stay there for a long, long time, because there's no place you'd rather be.

In the dream, years pass—decades maybe, though the horizon never changes save for the setting and rising sun, until one day, Steve's hand wraps around yours and he leans against you, and whispers into your ear, "Wake up," and you do, though you fight the pull of consciousness, clinging onto the sound of waves and the warmth of the sun and the sand.

"Wake up," says another man's voice.

Your eyes open; Steve is nowhere to be seen.

King T'Challa smiles and takes a step back, as two aides step forward to help you out of the cryo chamber. "Your mind has been cleansed of Hydra's commands. They no longer have a hold on you. Your mind is your own. Your will is your own. No one will ever take it from you again."

"You sound pretty sure," you say, voice scratchy with disuse. "Your majesty."

"As you requested, we have added a neural shielding device that will prevent any further tampering with your mind."

"Thank you," you say, and it's not enough. You're not awake enough yet to process the immense gratitude you should be feeling. As you take a step, still flanked on either side by the lab-aides your legs wobble; you're off-balance, left side lighter than expected.

You look down at your left arm, where a new prosthetic arm has been attached. It's lighter than your last—the one Howard's son blasted off in the midst of his righteous fury. Your shoulder twitches as you remember the intense pain of it, all the neuro-transmitters afire amidst the stench of burnt hair and molten metal.

After a few tests to make sure your reflexes are all working, you're escorted to a recovery room with sky to ceiling windows showing the splendor of Wakanda's lush canopy. Your mind is strangely still, but not empty. Memories of the past are there, but you keep them at bay, focusing instead on the warm glow of the setting sun until you drift into a peaceful, quiet sleep.

#

Just after breakfast the next morning, your door beeps.

"You have a visitor," says a pleasant, disembodied voice. You stand, legs still shaky, but far steadier than yesterday. The guards outside guide you to a large sitting room, with couches and tables as gleaming and sleek as the rest of the facility. You enter the room, under your own power, and the door closes behind you.

Your heartbeat is steady, but your nerves aren't. You're not quite ready to see Steve. In a dream was one thing, but now that you're awake, now that you're about to see him again, your stomach flutters and you feel as nervous as you did the afternoon you told him you were drafted.

The door slides open, and you can't look up to face him. Instead you keep your eyes on the floor, and take a deep, quivering breath.

His footsteps are slow when they approve. Far more unsure than he usually is. Maybe he's nervous too. "Hi. You probably don't remember me—"

It isn't Steve. You look up at an unfamiliar face and stand, a little faster than you intended to.

The man is still standing by the door. He runs his fingers throw his dark hair, greying slightly at the temples.

"Come in," you say once you realize what he's waiting for.

He smiles at you awkwardly, and extends his hand. "Doctor Banner."

You stare at his hand for a beat too long and he withdraws it, sticking it back into his pocket. A moment later, still fidgety, he pulls a cleaning cloth out and cleans his glasses, avoiding your eyes.

You'd read up on all the Avengers, not in depth, but enough to understand who Steve had allied himself with. And you remember the name Banner. But it's not until you study his face: the downturned lips, the furrowed brow, and he clears his throat, that an old memory comes to the forefront. "Bruce?"

He smiles at you sheepishly. "Yeah. That's me."

The memories are faded but you remember enough. A boy who showed you kindness, who helped you find food and a place to sleep. An angry little kid who wanted to be like Steve.

"I remembered what you said about gamma rays," Bruce says, looking at his shoes.

"You didn't listen."

Bruce's cheeks flush. "No, I didn't. I wasn't terribly great at that back then."

"You here to convince me to join the fight?"

Bruce's eyebrows creep up. "To join the—" he laughs, sharp and more than a little bitter. "No. I'd never..." he chews on his lip for a moment. "No. You do whatever you need to do. I stayed off the chessboard myself for a while." He shrugs. "Tried to, anyway."

His earnest demeanor is so changed from what little you remember of him back as a teenager, it makes you truly curious what he's been through since then. But now doesn't feel like the time to ask.

"If there's one thing I've learned, it's that it doesn't matter how far off the grid you go. There's always people trying to use you. You gotta decide what battles you want to fight." He sighs and there's a familiar weariness there, one you've seen in countless other faces, even if you can't remember all of them. "No matter what they tell you, your life is yours. You don't owe anyone a damn thing."

The sentiment is genuine and it comes from a good enough place, you can tell that much from his expression. But he's wrong.

He lets out a sigh and says, "Anyway, I was in the area, I heard you were awake and I just—wanted to stop by. It's been a long time."

"It has." You offer him your hand, and he shakes it, smiling, then turns to leave.

"Bruce?"

He stops just short of the door and turns back to look at you.

"Do you still read the comics?"

Bruce scoffs. "Oh, man, listen...you're gonna want to skip the last few years, trust me." He chews on his lip for a second before adding. "Anyway, Steve is way—way better in real life."

"I could've told you that," you say quietly, as he slips out the door.

#

**Brooklyn (2018)**

 

Steve's new apartment building has a conveniently large and empty rooftop. The Wakandan stealth-flyer lands silently and once you've cleared the exit, its shield makes it nearly completely invisible to the naked eye.

The moment your hand grabs the knob of the roof-access door, you freeze, considering. You could leave now, and nobody would know you'd ever been here. T'challa didn't just give you transportation, he gave you an escape—a new start, a whole new life, away from everything and everyone you've known. All you have to do is get back in the aircraft and go.

But you can't sit on the sidelines anymore than Steve can.

His apartment is on the third floor. 3A. You stand in front of the closed door listening to the soft music playing inside. When the song ends, you rap your knuckles against the door. Footsteps approach and you exhale slowly between your teeth.

The door opens and then Steve's there smiling at you. He's got bags under his eyes, but looks well otherwise. And when he see you his face breaks into a smile, so familiar, so _Steve_ that your stomach does somersaults.

"Hi—" Steve says, and his voice is unsteady. "Come in." He steps aside.

And you walk in.

 

#

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted Bruce and Bucky to meet. I felt like they'd have a lot to talk about and it turns out they did.


End file.
